


Appendices H: Folklore

by neverwondernever (thatgbppfrom10880MP)



Series: The War of Winter [4]
Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Folklore, Halloween, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgbppfrom10880MP/pseuds/neverwondernever
Summary: A special appendix for the month of October to get in the Halloween spirit. Folktales and myths and folklore that revolve around death and darker creatures on Arda.There will be themes each week and a folktale from the different races of Arda per theme. Week 1 is 'Spirits' (and likely represent various Maiar).Week 2 is 'Shapeshifters'. Be they Valar, Maiar, of known Races, or unknown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a folkish poem of the Atani [Race of Men]. It talks of the river Sirion.

Here along the lands of Beleriand  
Winds and bends the carving serpent.  
All the Races know and revere  
The great Sirion of brackish hue.  
He murmurs softly to them all,  
sweeping past the many homes.

Can you hear the song he sings?  
That serpent brackish who makes  
Fast mastery of the rich soil beneath.  
No? Then listen well.

Here along the lands of Beleriand  
The carving serpent flows and churns.  
The Firstborn knew of him long before  
And so they gave him recognition.  
Light of foot they were, those of the stars.  
So they stepped in the waters of the serpent.

Can you hear the song he sings?  
That youthful serpent ever flowing,  
Lazy and fat for his belly is ever full.  
No? Then listen well.

Here along the lands of Beleriand  
The feather light wadded into the waters.  
Soft was his song and soft was his words.  
Come, come, he softly sung among the ripples.  
Come, come, the cool serpent whispered to them.  
My children of fair and light, come, come to me.

Splish, splosh, splish, came the Firstborn.  
Stars among the water, they followed him in.  
Splosh, splish, splish, they stepped with care.

Here along the lands of Beleriand  
They sang to the great serpent flowing.  
They spoke of how his waters refreshed them,  
They spoke of the soft sand beneath him,  
They spoke of the great life flourishing within,  
And he sang to them thus:

Come, come, my children fair, step, step ever closer,  
Splish, splash, relish in my gifts of fish and river weeds.  
Come, come, my starlights, step, step ever closer.  
Splash, splosh, drink of me deeply and refresh yourselves.  
Come, come, into my waters and rejoice, splish, splish.

Here along the lands of Beleriand  
Can you hear the song that he sings?  
In the night, the serpent waters call  
To Elves, Men, and Dwarves alike  
He sings to us all.

Here along the lands of Beleriand  
Can you hear the song that he sings?  
To all the children of the Valar he calls  
And they answer in kind.

Splish, splish, splash, splosh, he sings.  
The children of the starlight waded deep  
Into the cool serpent's body.  
Splash, splash, splosh, splish, he sings.  
The first of the children make their song;  
In kind, splosh, splosh, splish, splash.

Here along the lands of Beleriand  
Winds and bends the carving serpent  
Whose belly is ever full and fat.  
The serpent who sings for us to come all  
And with the river weeds he holds us  
In an eternal cold embrace.

Can you hear the song that he sings?  
Splish, splash, splish, he calls to you,  
Come, come, relish in my cool drink,  
Come, come, enjoy my fish and river weeds,  
Step, step, he calls to us all, step ever closer,  
The great brackish serpent sings all night.

Can you hear the song that he sings?  
Splash, splosh, splash, he sings to his own,  
Those among the river weeds and fish he promised.  
Splosh, splish, splosh, he sings to his own,  
Those who serve him now, with bloated bellies.

They are his and his alone, waiting below his waters,  
Here along the lands of Beleriand,  
Where the carving serpent sings.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a folk song-tale by the Eldar [Elves]. It talks of Helcaraxë.

Listen well to the tales we tell you,  
Children of the Sun and Stewards of the Land.

Refrain:   
What became of you, snowborn and lost?  
Sing, sing to us, give us your voice.  
What became of you, far in the northern jaws?  
Sing, sing to us, so we may lay you to rest.

Well long and hard, we walked the lands gifted by the order of the creator. We know the words of the plants and the animals. We know well the medicines and the dangers. They whisper to us now, Children of the Sun. They speak to us in the rustle of the wind. They make their calls and chatter to the sky. This world is rich and speaks with many voices. 

There is but one land where none speak but one.

Refrain:   
What became of you, coldtorn and frost?  
Sing, sing to us, give us your voice.  
What became of you, far among the ice-paws?  
Sing, sing to us, so we may lay you to rest.

This voice cracks and whispers, but there is no kindness in its breast. Its heart is solid and frozen. It rumbles and squeals. 

This is the ice wolf that stretches across the sea. She is a giant that waits and rests in the north—a bridge between our lands and the lands of the divine ones. Fear her, secondborn, and fear with all you can.

None may tame her but the ones who brought her to being. The Dark Master she calls father; the Void with Many Eyes her mother.

Refrain:  
What became of you, our kin and kind?  
Sing, sing to us, give us your voice.  
What became of you, so long ago?  
Sing, sing to us, so we may lay you to rest.

We walked across her back, seeking to return to these lands.

You know of wolves, Children of the Sun. You know their hunger and their fangs.

She is the greatest of wolves, the mother giant who rests at the edge of our world.

She sleeps in her age, but we woke her. We walked into her jaws and she did not suffer our soft tread. She snatched with ease and few of us survived. 

She bit with ice-cold and she took our hands and feet. She took our ears and nose. She turned them black with the poison in her fangs.   
Some heard her songs and wandered, lost into the wastes. Delirious with hunger and lost in mind to the cold. They buried themselves into her white fur.

Refrain:  
What became of you, those now blind?  
Sing, sing to us, give us your voice.  
What became of you, in the snow?  
Sing, sing to us, so we may lay you to rest.

The sun does not shine on the ice wolf of the north; the moon does not dare tread near her fearsome jaws. The sky is not the friend you know in this kind land. The sky is its own, there where the mother wolf lies. Lights dance and lead in circles. Do not trust in the navigation stones nor the compasses. There are no stars and no guiding friend-light.

It is darkness, for she was born of the Lord and Lady of the Void.

Listen well, to the tales we tell you,  
Children of the Sun and Stewards of the Land.

There is a giant in the north, and she lays between the divine and here. She sleeps in her age and she waits with great hunger. She is the only voice spoken in her land. No company may save you, and no light is your friend while you walk upon her. She is the ice-fang, the one with the cracking throat. She is the snow wolf, narrow and lean. She has taken my kin, my brothers, sisters, and siblings all.

Do not cross upon her back, Children of the Sun.

Refrain:  
What became of you, blackened and cold?  
Sing, sing to us, give us your voice.  
What became of you, buried and dead?  
Sing, sing to us, so we may lay you to rest.

Did you reach the lands beyond?  
Did you enter the halls of judgment?  
Sing, sing to us, give us your voice.  
Sing, sing to us, so we may lay you to rest.

There in the land of clashing hills of ice,  
The dark wolf snatches her prey with cruelty.  
She grows in her hatred and satisfaction,  
There in the land of dancing lights and mist.

What became of you, sing, sing to us!  
What became of you, so we may lay you to rest!  
Did you reach the lands beyond?  
Did you enter the halls of judgment?  
Sing, sing to us!  
The she-wolf has you and you are lost!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a mythic tale of the Avari, the Dark Elves. It talks of the forests of the East.

Amlaíb and Von were walking one day, as they often did. They had journeyed long through the mountains of the east, deep into the wild wood. This was the time of the world when the land sped eagerly under foot and distance was not yet able to be measured with great accuracy. No more did they see their people nor any home. The world was young and wild, and it belonged to the children of the Mother and the Hunter. 

Clear and refreshing were the brooks. Lush and fruit-bearing the vegetation. Wild and free were the animals. Much was foreign to them. They spied small deer found nowhere else, and cats that fished among the waters. This was the true realm of the Mother and Hunter. Their Songs were heavy in the air, and Amlaíb and Von were amazed as much as they were lost.

Here the lights of the high-gold and sky-blue could not reach. Their lights were lost in among the canopies of the forest. The wood was its own master. It gave its own light and its own darkness as it pleased. It held its own law and judgment. None could tell the wood to obey, to give its gifts.

And so Amlaíb and Von walked with no choice than to find their way. It was by luck that they had ample supply of travel bread and well-filled skins of water. Bushes would shift and twist, as if an unfelt wind blew and they could obtain no berries. Brooks thinned and twisted and they could draw no water.

Soon they grew tired and found a notch within a great, large trunk of a tree. This could have housed five of their kind with comfortable room. Yet even so, they slept, worn through by their travel.

In their sleep, the world around them shifted. Von awoke to the trunk around them moving. He shouted in dismay and fear, waking Amlaíb. 

Above them was a tree, moving. Around them, they heard song and drums, but this, they realized was the sound of the forest moving. Vines slithered and bushes scuttled. Trees shook and ambled. 

All around, the world glowed with fungus, creeping and crawling.

_Boom ha da hoom boom_ the forest went, singing a song with words beyond their ability to speak. _Barahoom da ho_ , it went. _Shah hish and ha_ , the vines and bushes went. _Shi sa hash ah_ , they went. _Fo lo hi_ the fungi spoke. _Oh lo fi ahhhh si_ , they went.

Amlaíb and Von grasped each other, small to the world. Vines grasped at their ankles. Von gave a shout and Amlaíb took out his dagger. 

_Hrak krak hadum_ the forest went and the two felt the great raw anger and hunger of the forest. _Hiss ha kak_ the bushes went, rustling and surrounding them. The great tree that they had rested in bent to its best ability and there they saw its many eyes, glowing in the threatening light of the fungi.

_Kah krak humdoo_ said the tree, and the vines made fast work in binding the two travelers.

_Hish hash so ah_ the bushes rustled and hi hi lo hi the fungi puffed. _Hak krak shak ha_ the forest went. The drums of the forest grew louder and the light darker.

Von shouted out for mercy, “Please, please, oh rough bark, children of the mother, do not eat us, do not.” 

The forest merely laughed with the sound of branches scraping and leaves hissing. 

“Please please,” he called. “We are children, too, and merely travelers.” 

The drums sped, the forest hungry and wanting.

Amlaíb then gave a shout, the vines overcoming him, and he lost grip on his dagger. Under he was pulled, down into the rich soil. Mouth full of earth, he was dragged down and down, where the roots of the forest eagerly awaited his blood.

Von struggled and wriggled, but he too was pulled down and down to where the roots grew. 

There in the earth, the drumming was greater. There in the earth, they smelled the raw Song, fresh and eager. 

_Ha shi lo dol_ , a song came then, there above the earth. No light shone, and yet, a fire blossomed within the great depth of the forest wild. _Di del oh sol_ , it sang. 

Earth moved and soil shifted. Roots halted and calmed.

Amlaíb and Von returned to the surface to see a figure before them, a being lithe and full of light. He shone with hues of the world and beyond. He looked upon the forest around them, singing _sah hah nolilo, halillio si kah da._

They gasped for air, feeling life return to their bodies. Still, the vines slithered away, the bushes rustled back, and the great tree looming above stepped slowly back.

_Hohoom no kodo lillio_ , the figure sang. 

_Sho sho hi no_ , the bushes rustled.

_Krak badoom ririo_ , the figure sang back, and the bushes halted.

_Ki ki si fi li_ , the vines hissed.

_Krak kadum hihioi_ , the figure sang and the vines returned to the branches above.

_Fi go ho-oh lo_ , the fungi puffed.

_Korak dakoom yiyioi_ , the figure sang, and the fungi quieted.

_HOOM-ba-doom KRAH krak_ , the great tree spoke.

The figure of hues unlimited did nothing and the drums became discordant, taking its power from the figure of light.

_BO kum HAH foom_ , the great tree spoke.

_Shi shi ha_ , the figure spoke, softly. The drums persisted, disrupting the music of the forest.

The great tree paused there and regard the figure of all light and that beyond. The forest around them quiet with little rustling and sounds. There were no bubbling of brooks and no calls of life. It spoke with the hushed fear of plant-life. Amlaíb and Von spoke no words.

The figure glimmered, and in that moment the travelers saw beyond the light and what the figure that was within. 

_HOHUM ko kak_ the great tree spoke.

And with a terrible and dark noise, the figure lost all trace of life. The forest then was cast in darkness beyond darkness and when it receded and light returned, the great tree was shattered. 

Amlaíb and Von fled then, and found the way from the dark, wild depths of the forest to be shorter than the way inward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amlaíb and Von are common Avarin mythic heroes. They appear as wanderers who go through great lengths in their exploration. Amlaíb is the father and his name can translate to "father." Von is his son and his name can also translate likewise.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a folkish song of the Khazâd [Dwarves]. It talks of the mountains.

Beyond the plains of Men  
Lay the hills and rocks of me.  
'ere I once stood proud and high  
Yet broken and prone now am I.

Drums I loved to play,  
And stomped a good beat aye,  
But oh did it make me sway,  
With joy and love of song.

This did not please those below  
Living in the soft sweet hollow.  
They cried with tears to their Father   
And soon I met his gaze a fierce. 

“Stop this rock child of the Land,”  
He called and hoping I would listen.  
“Stop crushing those beneath and  
Rest upon the ground, calm and nice.”

No, I did not end my play  
Stomping and drumming away,  
So e'er did the soil crack and cry  
Beneath my great ambling feet.

The Father of those beneath me  
Threatened again and yet again,  
But no I did not listen to his wisdom  
And soon I found myself in much pain.

Low did I lie there on the soil,  
Quiet was I in my enforced rest.  
'ere did the Land take me in then  
And gave me a place to be a guest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a folk tale of the Khizidîn [Petty-Dwarves]. It talks of fire.

Wander have we from night to day,  
Born by forge and shadows we are.  
Fire is our father, Rock our brother.  
The Land is our King and Dark Master.

Once this world was cold and lifeless, raw and wild with song. The sky sounded with horns; the land with discordant drums. The water alluring with harps. All was dark, waiting with potential. Then the Mother and Father came and added to the cacophony.

In the music soon came life. Yet well did they stumble and struggle. 

So the Land placed a hand on his breast and drew out the ever-lasting fire within. It shone so great, so well, and thus burned the Land. Fire hissed and spat, untameable and hungry. It held a pain of longing for its rightful place of rest within the heart of the Land.

The Father could do nothing to calm him.

The Lord of Waters stepped forward and attempted to quench Fire but to no avail. It burned with a force ever-glowing. It split then, however, into many beings, spreading across all of Arda. 

The seeped into the rock, melting it and becoming one. They walked among the forests and plains, eating all in its path, retreating only when the Waters and his kin arrive. Yet these wandering fires never die. They are the eternal flames of the Land.

They pop and crackle and hiss. They live still in the depths, bound in rock, yet ever-flowing. They light the way as much as consume it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a folkish tale of the Orcs. It talks of the barrier between this world and the beyond.

There deep in the tunnels is a creature of shadow. There deep in the land lies the darkness that is beyond darkness. There deep below us all, it festers and grows, ever hungry. It does not growl, but clacks and chitters. It makes no sound and stalks with silent steps. It has a poison none can combat nor heal. The creature undulates with its unnatural belly, full of all the light it can bear to consume.

Howl, howl, my brothers,  
For it has taken him,  
Howl, howl, my sisters,  
For it has poisoned him,  
Howl, howl, my siblings,  
For it has dragged him away.

Hakanh was walking one day. He had his bones of mother and the forest blood. He had left the Three Peaks behind and entered the Great Scar beyond. Here among lay many wonders. Monsters who were neither Elf, Atani, Dwarf, or Orc. Monsters that shifted between shapes. Spirits that sung and beguiled those to their death. The dead unrest wandered here. The forest above shifted and moved and killed. The land below slithered and crawled, sometimes afire, sometimes cold, othertimes toxic. The sky winds could tear one from the land and one could be eaten by the thunder. And the in the greatest, darkest depths of it all, lay the most dangerous beings: the spider and the wandering man.

Hakanh was destined to meet the spider this day.

He walked and sung the songs of marching. He had a pack full of dried meats and skins of travelling grog. He stepped lightly past the hovels of the shapeshifters. He plugged muck into his ears and could not hear the calls of the marsh spirits. He burned herbs to keep the dead at rest. He gathered rocks and so the wind could not bear him away. He drummed songs of sleep for the land so it would not shift and swallow him whole. He left a carcass of deer for the thunder to eat so he could slip past unscathed. 

He walked deeper and deeper into the Great Scar, to where it was unknown and uncharted. There is where the darkness-that-is-beyond-all-dark lies. 

That is where the spider walks, on her many legs, and there she births her many children. 

This too is where the wandering man makes his home. This is where he sings; this is where he shines. But that is another tale.

Hakanh, in his great strength and cleverness, sought new adventure.

Light faded here and the darkness was now the light. What once was darkness was the void—that which is not shadow, for with shadow, there is the possibility of light, but with the void, there is nothing. There is no fire. There is no night. 

The forest disappeared and the land grew twisted and strange. Hakanh found himself in a tunnel, a cave greater than that which he could measure. The expanse was larger than he could see. He entered this tunnel, clutching well his spear, that which was a gift and a theft, made of the bones of the mother, made of the forest's blood. It was his great prize and could slay all. 

Hakanh muttered the protective words of the great father. It was he who had given Hakanh the urge to wander.

Deep in the tunnel, he heard the clacking. The chittering. 

It laughed, Hakanh realized.

“What is so funny?” Hakanh asked it.

It chittered and chattered and clicked and clacked.

“I am the Footman of the Land,” Hakanh said.

From the void of the tunnel came the spider mother, all-consuming, all-great and all-terrible. “Ahk, yes, I see. I see his traces on you,” she clacked. “He has sent you to walk, to wander the expanse of the world.”

Hakanh watched the great spider unfold herself. 

“You are small, little creation of the land. You have reached the edge and you have gone too far, tiny one,” she clicked.

Hakanh trembled, for he had seen nothing so large as her, not even the Land himself. In his hand, his spear felt like rotted driftwood.

“You have a spark of light,” she chattered. “A tasty crumb, that you are, who has wandered into my nest.” She struck with great speed.

Hakanh could not avoid her, for so great is the speed of the spider. His spear, that which can slay all, he had wedged between her fangs. He was caught, there, between her chelicera. He strained with the effort. The base of his spear, the forest's blood, snapped and shattered in his hands. One of her fangs sank into his leg and he slipped from her and fell to the ground.

He took the spearhead--the bones of mother--and sliced off his lower leg, right below the knee, for he did not wish for the poison to spread. 

The great spider attacked again, and again, he wedged the bones of the mother between her fangs.

The spearhead cracked and shattered.

Her fangs grazed and hooked onto his pack and he slipped free once more. He dropped to the ground, weaponless and injured.

“So small, so small,” the great spider chittered. “You will not escape a third time.”

She struck, faster and inescapable. 

Hakanh was swallowed then, and the great spider returned to her tunnel in the void.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a folk tale of the Hobbits. It talks of the Baranduin.

Have you got your food in one hand and drink in the other? Have you a pipe at the ready? Are your feet resting away?

There are many of forests and hills and rivers in this world. They all hold a mystery or two that none would want to find, but there's one a'close to home. You may have even taken a'crossing to it. Yet long, long ago, there was no way across—no ferry lad to pole you along. No, no, these days it's a calm enough river.

This is the dark-golden one. The one who travels east and south. The one who comes from the lake of twilight, where the Elves once lived. This is the heary ale-river. 

A dark stout is he, with long flowing hair. He has gold eyes and a dangerous grin. But now, now, he lets us cross his surface. Only there along the ferry, that is. Do not mistake him for a tamed river. There is no tamed water in all of Middle-Earth.

Long, long ago, we met him. He was capricious then, and he would soon as want to drown us as talk to us. That wouldn't do, as you can imagine, and so we set out a council. All the while, in the distance, we could hear him calling and singing. He has a lovely song, does he not? But it was an earlier and wilder time. We set along stone fences and wooden barriers. He is truly lovely singer, and for that, it was so easy to forget that he would as soon as keep you forever as have a pleasant evening chat. Some even tied themselves to their bed posts.

And so, one evening, among the town officials, they talked. It was a dark but fulfilling time. Even with ol' stouty gold one singing along. There was the old familiars. Everirard and Reginard, the would be Bracegirdles now. Rosy Bandibras the Stoorish. Even Celandine was there, in her great age. 

But as I was saying, they were all amased together, there, and it may have been night, yet there was food abound and a well-visited barrel of Mirkish wine. Young Eglantine was there, playing her pipe. 

In the distance, the river one sang and played along the rocks. Oh did he want for company!

Yet none of the council would give him an ounce of attention. 

It took dear Eglantine quite some time before she realized that not all the song she played was her own. She blew her pipe so well, and none were all the wiser, but it was river, singing. As the council nodded off, as was custom in those days, Eglantine could not rest her mind. 

She took off, pipe in hand, to meet the river stout.

He greeted her with great welcome, that dark golden one. He sang for how lonely he was and how much fun it was to play at songs with another.

Eglantine was wary, for all the night, she heard of his dangers. 

Wouldn't she like to play for him now? Waft into his waters and truly play? 

No, no, Eglantine said. 

Why not? The river one asked.  
Because I am thirsty, Eglantine said. I have played much this night and my throat is weary and parched.

Am I not a river, the ale-one asked. Drink of me, he said. 

No, no, Eglantine returned. You may be a river, but here, I will get a drink. 

Do so, oh sweet little one, and then we play, the river answered. For in truth, he was immensely lonely and he loved her music so well.

She took her time, scared to return, and so in her wit, she took along a barrel of Dwarvish beer and a sack of food—all sorts of leftovers from the council meeting. 

She met with the river. Here, she said. Some apples with honey and cheese. Pastries from the day. Some cold slices of roast and lovely potatoes.

He ate with her, intrigued and confused. He spied the barrel beside her. What is that? He asked.

It's some of our drink, Elgantine said. And she offered him the drink.

They played and drank, but Elgantine took her sips carefully, while the river, so unused to the offering, did not. 

Towards the end of the night, as twilight-dawn approached, the golden ale-one asked her to come in the waters. It was cool and pleasant, he said, and Elgantine refused.

The river found it hard to move and could not grasp her. She stepped back nimbly from his shore. 

She left him there and returned the next night. She had under her arm her pipe and a basket of food. She had rolled a cask of drink with her.

She did this every night, and the river fell enamoured of her. Yet, nor did he try and take her under, as he did with so many before. 

She lived to an old age. The ferry was built and many could cross the dark-golden river without trouble. 

She disappeared one day, in the fall. An opened cask and empty basket by the shore. 

The gold-dark river is not a tame river.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A special appendix for the month of October to get in the Halloween spirit. Folktales and myths and folklore that revolve around death and darker creatures on Arda.
> 
> There will be themes each week and a folktale from the different races of Arda per theme.
> 
> Week 2 is 'Shapeshifters'. Be they Valar, Maiar, of known Races, or unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a folk tale of the Atani [Race of Men]. It talks of a water-horse skinchanger.

There was a king and he ruled over the people of horses. He had many sons but one daughter. She was most beloved by her father, and he gave her most freedoms. She rode out with her brothers and hunted. Around her neck, she wore the green pendant of Idis, the Vala of wind and arrows. There were many days and nights when the king and the daughter, she who mastered the riding of horses and archery, so well that she was the pride of the household, and felled many creatures born of the dark master, had been spent arguing. She would need be wed, her father said. All her brothers had been paired off, she would argue. They needed no more alliances. She wished for her freedom. He argued that her patron, the quick Vala, was also the bride Vala. She argued that a bride was different from a wife. She vowed to ever be a bride but never a wife.

After a truly bad argument, the daughter took to her horse and bow and fled into the rolling hills beyond. She found rest beside a pool and wept for her misfortune. There in the waters, she saw a horse's reflection, and at first, she thought it to be her own. Yet the creature moved and her horse gave alarm, and out from the waters came a water-horse, dripping. Riverweeds were its fur and streamstones were its teeth. She gave a shout of fear and alarm, and it bore down on her, then rode past.

She mounted her horse, and kept chase. Despite her and her horse's fear, they kept good pace.

And so the game went on. This water-horse would dip and disappear in rivers and streams and pools to only appear later. Her arrows could not hit it nor harm it, and in time, she realized if she slowed to give her horse rest, it would pause.

Night approached and soon she found herself lost among her own lands. 

She started up a small fire, leaving the chase alone.

Her horse grazed and slept. 

Yet on the air, she smelled the scent of river mud and water weeds. And there before her, approaching her, was a swarthy man. He was nude but for the black mud splattered on him and the reeds woven around him. In one hand he carried a net, wrapped as a satchel, full of crawfish and oysters and clams and fish.

He spoke nothing, but offered her everything.

It was months before the daughter returned to her father's halls. She was changed now, and when asked upon, she said she had found her answer. She would speak none of what happened, but every spring, she would disappear for the months, and return in the midsummer. 

It was said that there was a mark of magics on her, and that if any sought for her hand in marriage, they would find themselves beset by nightmares and troubles until they left her alone. In one case, a particularly stubborn suitor was drowned. 

In ill times, many of her kingdom found needed treasures among the rivers, and it is said that the daughter was not without children, but that her own roamed on hooves, and were rarely seen.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is folk poem-tale of the Eldar [Elves]. It talks of a tiger shapeshifter.

Fair and long have we traveled  
Past forest, hill, valley, and mountain,  
Through the world high and low,  
Cold and hot, with sand and soil.  
There beyond in the thickest of flora  
Where the vines grow thick and the   
Air is an ocean unto itself,  
Lies the great quiet shadow sage.

She pads quietly along the land,  
Seeking wonders and secrets unknown  
To us; she roars and chuffs and watches   
With intelligent yellow eyes.  
A friend she can be at the dinner table  
To strangers and friends and family alike,  
Yet her strike will crush the body and release  
The soul to the Masters of Spirits.

Thus we have come across her, seeking  
Words and knowledge she may part,  
And this tale she spoke to us:

Have you come for comfort or truths, Eldar, you who awoke before the Men, before the Dwarves? A chase you have gifted me, a meal you have provided, but this does not come at a price, I know. You seek what I have, I who walk this world half in shadow and half in light. I am that which sees all and knows, and you fear my strength; I smell it on your skin. I have eaten many before me.

I have many children on the lands, just as strong and agile as I. We will hunt and explore as we see fit, but we remain our twice-selves; we eat in the shadows just as we eat on the life in the light. I have nursed and birthed and fucked many; you I will release.

Yet the answer to who am I, who was my designer, who I call allegiance to? It is as I said: to light and darkness, I am born of, and there I exist. What end is there to a circle? Do you see it true, here, in the light? Do you know of the truth in the dark? Fire and ice—the world was made from. Darkness All and Fire Imperishable. Yet is real and what is reflection? There is none without the other, and none are alone. 

Ask yourselves this: Are you of light or dark?

And when you know this answer, you will know who I am, who I align to, and who has created me.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a folk-tale of the Avari. It talks of elemental shapeshifters.

Along the shore, there are islands. Some are barren of life. They are young and rocky. There are some that have new growth and life. It is a great wonder to travel to these islands, to see land form anew. Yet, one must never travel there, for the islands were created, and those that created them do not suffer trespassers lightly.

They can be seen while sailing past, watching, nude. They have basalt skin and make slow, soft songs of drums and deep horns. They sing through their throats. There are not many among the islands, but they walk among them all the same.

In their revelry, they will strip their skin and form new land, stretching across it, caressing it, taking it all in, and in doing so, they destroy what they touch. From this, they create the land, and in time, life flourishes.

Gaiar was traveling along the coast when she found the islands. There among them, they called to her. 

They sang and drummed. This was when the islands were young and people among them were unaccustomed to travelers.

Gaiar stopped near them, entranced by the warmth of these strangers. The sea, her uncle, however had misgivings and told her so. 

“They are dangerous,” he said to her. “They are neither Maiar nor Children.”

Gaiar did not listen, for her uncle had many opinions. She stepped on to one of the islands and there the people rejoiced and immediately sought connection with her. 

They spoke between each other for some time. They had no food to offer Gaiar and they refused her offerings of the gifts of the sea. 

The basalt people were much entranced by her smooth skin, for theirs was rough, and by her hair, for which they had none. 

After half the day, Gaiar politely made leave towards the sea, for she was in need of its coolness. The islands were sunbaked and hot. The basalt people did not want her to leave, and so attempted to halt her. At first they were kind, showing her strange formations and creations they had made. But she grew persistent and made to leave again. This time, they bartered with her; the islands grew most interesting at night, they offered. Stay one night, they begged. She said she would return later and made to leave again. This time they grew angry and said she was not allowed. They argued, and in their argument, the basalt people changed their form, unable to maintain it any longer due to their emotional state. The land around them reacted and some of the rock melted and grew too hot to touch. Water steamed and boiled. They glowed, soft, struggling with form. They reached for her, and burned her arm. Yet, her uncle then threw upon them and halted their progress. 

“Go,” the uncle-sea shouted, and Gaiar fled among the water. 

In the distance, steam rose as the sea and the basalt-lava people fought. Thus, she was saved, and to this day, the people are wary of visitors.


End file.
